


Tipsy

by libraryv



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 12:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Cormoran and Robin have a night out at the pub and Robin gets tipsy.





	Tipsy

**Author's Note:**

> I needed some fun. This is sweet and absolutely unnecessary. :D  
> A shout out to the Beardy version of Strike, whom I know we all love!

It was late on a Thursday evening that found Strike and Robin meeting Nick and Ilsa at the pub; the two detectives had needed to drown their sorrows after a case went sideways.

Drowning was the right term for it: everyone in the group was a few pints in, and there was no sign of stopping. 

Robin pressed her hands to her temple, her elbows slumping forward onto the table. It was sticky with beer stains and crumbs, but she was too tired to care.

"I can't believe we just wasted a whole week on that case,” she said again. “The energy, the lack of sleep, I mean we must both be running on five hours total since bloody _Monday_ , and the cost alone-“

"At least you two will be able to get some sleep," Ilsa put in kindly. "Even if it did cost you a few days of time."

Strike put a hand to his three-day stubble, scratching and shaking his head at the table. “Let's go over the depressing logistics tomorrow. Tonight, it's nothing a pint or two can't handle.”

He was aware of Robin's blue-gray eyes watching him, knew they were tracking his fingers as they traveled across the rough, dark hair on his jaw. 

He put his hand back on the table, brushing his knuckles against hers for a brief moment. He looked up, meeting her eyes, and something flashed between them.

Robin groaned and put the heels of one hand to her eyes and brought them away, leaving her mascara smudged. 

"What a week."

Underneath the table, her knee nudged his, and her other hand came to rest firmly on his thigh. He looked at her, but her face remained completely impassive as her hand began to stroke up and down on the material of his trousers. Her touch felt so good it might as well be illegal. He cleared his throat at Nick, who had just asked him a question. 

"Sorry. What?"

Nick raised his eyebrows. 

"You really are tired, mate. I asked, did you want another drink?"

“Right.” Strike stood up. “Third round?”

Robin looked up at him, and it was unmistakeable; she winked. 

“Obviously.”

Strike made his way awkwardly to the bar; the past week had been hell on his leg.

By the time he got back to the table he saw that it was Robinless.

Ilsa pointed in the direction of the hall to the left, watching him. 

"She's disappeared in that direction."

Strike was making his way down the crowded hallway when he saw her; she was slumped lazily against the wall, staring at the glowing screen of her mobile. She saw him coming and gave him an clearly seductive glance that nearly stopped him in his tracks.

He stood across from her, leaning against the opposite wall. They stared at each other and she titled her head, pocketing her mobile. A young man came into the hallway, fighting his way through the bodies. Strike squeezed up against Robin for a moment to let him pass; felt Robin's curves for a pleasurable moment before stepping back again. 

The air was loaded with the unspoken invitation that hung between them. Strike was fighting a losing battle: it would take a mere step to close the gap, to have her in his arms, to be kissing that teasing smile she wore. And from there it would be a matter of minutes to have her back at his place, underneath him, hot breath in his ear, panting his name.

He remained where he was, the music changed, and Robin's head swung up. 

"Oh, I love this song!" She grinned, singing along, and danced a few steps, before losing her balance and tripping slightly. 

Strike's arm came out and steadied her, and he placed her gently back against the wall. 

This time, he held her in place.

With his own hips.

She smiled up at him.

"I'm a bit tipsy, Cormoran."

"I noticed."

"Yes, I'm sure you did notice, _detective._ " She seemed to find this immensely funny, and Strike watched as she succumbed to a fit of giggling, before it subsided and she looked back up at him, her expression thoughtful. 

"I've always thought that a bit of stubble looks good on a man."

She reached up a hand and rubbed it across the rough, unshaven patch of dark bristle that was already half a beard. He allowed himself a moment - away from work, away from thinking - and closed his eyes. Her touch wasn't hesitant; this was definitely an invitation.

"Cormoran."

"Robin."

He knew she could feel the hardness in his trousers; how could she bloody not notice?

None of it was romantic; the thudding of the music over the speakers, the laughter from the pub, the jostling bodies in the hallway, Robin giggling at the beginnings of his beard. 

And yet, Strike could no longer fight it, could no longer find a reason not to lean down and finally kiss her. 

From the moment his lips met hers he knew it was the best idea he'd ever had; he was mentally thanking the pub and everyone in it for a moment before he didn't care anymore, because kissing Robin was like capturing bliss. She opened to him, bloomed underneath him, and he met her tongue's strokes with his own, his large hands skimming, featherlight, along the sides of her body before settling at her waist. 

She drew back, a dreamy smile on her face, and placed a hand on his chest, which he took in his own and kissed. 

"Well, Cormoran, I have to say,"

He looked at her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

"You almost gave us away, back there, with your intense and stormy gazing into my eyes."

He laughed, once, looking down the hallway, towards the main room of the pub. 

"Hardly. More like you did, with your hands exploring under the table."

Robin grinned.

"Is that a complaint?"

Strike shook his head and circled his hips against hers, eliciting a tiny gasp.

"Definitely not a complaint."

Robin smiled again; it was more seduction, this time, than sweetness. 

"I suppose we should tell them soon."

Strike nodded.

"I suppose we should, soon. Ilsa will hit previously unreached decibels of squealing."

Robin laughed, but it was cut short by Strike's hands traveling to her bottom and squeezing gently, bringing her close against him.

"But first," he said, and she was a little breathless, but then so was he. They were still drunk on it; this newness of tumbling headfirst into each other. 

"I'm going to finish what I started."

And he bent his head towards her again, her smile lighting him up, her hand already reaching back up to tangle again in his hair.


End file.
